A Battle Never Won
by HarTay2022
Summary: Not even the great Sherlock Holmes can win this battle. This is my first FanFiction, please be nice. NO SLASH.


Four days. Four days, six witnesses, one victim, five suspects, two alibies, one wrong arrest, (by Scotland Yard). Another victim, two more alibies, a trip into the "Mind Palace," a two and a half hour stakeout, a foot chase, a three minute fight, and two cups of tea brought them to where they were now. John in the living room with his laptop at the table, and Sherlock laying across the couch, head directly beneath that ever present, and very permanent, yellow smiley face.

This case had turned out to be quite interesting.

Four days ago, there had been a string of robberies from some local stores where six people claimed to have seen them taking place, but not a one being able to make out any physical characteristics about the culprit.

"_That is because they only witnessed, and failed to observe like everyone else in this bloody city."_ Sherlock had once again stated, for probably the half million time in his life. Proving, if only to himself, that everyone, with the exception of himself and _sometimes _John, was a complete idiot.

A few hours later, another robbery had taken place several miles away from where the original robberies had occurred; but this time, the perpetrator got away with only the life of a store employee. Sherlock had observed that the injuries sustained where caused by a blunt object, a bat most likely, and the cause of death was forced trauma to the head causing a skull fracture and blood rushing to his brain. Aluminum bat, no doubt. The autopsy later proved that Sherlock was right, of course.

Lestrade had insisted that the two cases where not related since the original robber would only strike at stores a few blocks away from each other. But Sherlock argued that the two were, in fact, related. So, instead of "_dropping it_" as Lestrade told him to, Sherlock perused in proving that the two crimes where connected, and the person or _people_ who had committed them.

By the middle of the second day, Sherlock had five suspects, but two were let go because of their whereabouts at the time. Lestrade had texted them saying that they had caught the thief, but he was released a few hours later after Sherlock had proved that there was no way that that man could have successfully pulled off a crime like that so carefully.

It turns out that the man that the Yard had arrested was part of Sherlock's "Homeless Network." He was often drunk, a rather happy drunk at that, and would admit to committing any crime if asked just for a laugh. This was not the first time Sherlock had to convince Lestrade to let him go, and most certainly would not be the last.

On the third day there had been another robbery, successful like the first few, but another life was claimed as well. Two more alibies were established and confirmed; they spent the rest of the day and night and late afternoon of the fourth day looking over the notes, clues, and maps. Well, Sherlock did, John took a bit of a kip when the hours turned over well into the night.

Sherlock had locked himself away in his "Mind Palace" spending several hours waving his arms around as if he were arranging notes on a desk. John often wondered what exactly all that movement meant, but Sherlock was Sherlock and he would do things the way that _he_ wanted. Whether or not they made sense to anyone else.

Around nine o'clock that night, Sherlock had his answer. He and John took refuge in an old, abandoned flat across from a store where Sherlock had calculated that the thief would strike next. After about two and a half hours of waiting, the thief, or rather thieves did turn up.

Sherlock had been correct in believing that the crimes where related. As it turned out, the culprits were cousins, one twenty-five and the other twenty-three. The older one had been robbing the local shops to pay off a bet; the latter was attempting to learn from the other the effective way to make a quick buck. But his first attempt went a bit pear shaped when he realized someone was still in the shop, he panicked, and beat the employee to his death. The second robbery to involve a murder was done by both men, and really wasn't a murder after all. The older man emptied the till while his younger relative held an elderly woman at knife point; she was so traumatized by the events that she had a heart attack on the spot and died.

They chased the offenders around the city, and through busy traffic until they reached the dead end of a dark alley; where they all four fought until both Sherlock and John had their suspects pinned and handcuffed, and that is where they left them for Lestrade and Scotland Yard to find.

All of that brought them here to 221B Baker Street in their flat in the living room, one at the table and one on the couch.

John had just finished typing his blog about their latest case; he had wanted to title it "Double Trouble" but Sherlock had threated to throw his laptop out the window if he did, and coming from Sherlock, John knew that it was not a hollow threat. So, the latest case was called, "Two for One Steal" he was sure that Sherlock was not too fond of that title either, but he seemed to except it slightly more than the first. At least his beloved laptop had not been threatened again with a one way trip to the pavement below.

He uploaded the file to Sherlock's website and stretched, his back and left shoulder were sore from the brief tussle with the robbers. He looked at his watch; it was half past two in the morning. Boy had it been a long few days and John was tired, very tired.

He looked up towards Sherlock who had said nothing since they had come home a few hours ago. He had hung up his belstaff and scarf, kicked off his shoes, flopped down on the sofa, and that is where he stayed. John had made them both tea, and his cup had long since been empty, other than that he did not move.

His dark curls were tousled together on top of his head that lied upon that pillow that nearly had the same pattern as their wallpaper. His white shirt was still tucked neatly in his trousers, still nice and unwrinkled even after chasing and fighting criminals. How did he do it?

Sherlock's right hand was bandaged up though. During the fight, the older cousin had pulled a knife out on Sherlock but only managed to slit the back of his hand before Sherlock pinned him to the ground. It was the one time that Sherlock did not bring his black gloves.

He had been so lucky, John was sure it could have been much worse.

The cut was not deep and most likely would not scar, it did however reach one end of his palm to the other, therefore, there was enough blood for John to want to wrap it and keep it clean.

His wide hands and tall fingers were pasted together under his chin, and he was staring straight ahead, but seeing nothing. _He was thinking,_ John thought, he was always thinking, but something was different.

John continued taking in his friend's features, especially his eyes. They were focused, but distant; crystal, but not clear. Then John saw them, the dark shadows under those eyes that gave his whole face a paler hue. The redness that surrounded his icy blue irises drowned out the whiteness of his eyes; and each blink was slow, very slow until suddenly his eyelids met, and just as quickly as they closed they popped open again.

The corner of John's mouth turned up ever so slightly.

"Stop fighting it, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked over. "Stop fighting what?"

"You're tired."

"I am not!" Sherlock snapped, but made no movement to sit up.

"Oh right…" John said rolling his eyes, "You're exhausted."

"No, I'm not." He turned to look straight ahead again.

"Okay." John surrendered.

But he knew better, it was obvious that Sherlock was tried, it didn't take John being a doctor to figure it out, and he had known it for a while too. He knew Sherlock well enough to know when he was acting differently.

He may have been alright for the first day or two, but he really started show the signs of his exhaustion on the third day of the case. His trip into his "Palace" was a bit longer than previous times, and surely they had had more challenging cases than this one.

The simple fact that he forgot his gloves was a giveaway that he was not as clear headed as he usually was. His head was clogged with the need to rest and it distracted him. His lack of arguing when John offered to wrap his hand was a surprise. On a normal basis, Sherlock would have argued against the idea of having any sort of medical attention, even John's, for any type of injury.

John would have expected fully-aware Sherlock to say something like,

"_It is just a scratch, John. It is boring and dull, and not even worth you tending to it."_

And John would have said,

"_It is not just a scratch and it is worth my tending to, Sherlock. It's a gash that is bleeding down your whole hand! I need to clean and wrap it before it gets infected, so shut up and stop moving!"_

And then _annoying_ fully-aware Sherlock would have said,

"_Dull."_

That is what would have happened. John knew that's what would have happened.

At that moment, Sherlock's hands migrated and relaxed on his stomach, the right one over the left one, and he sighed deeply. John shook his head, why was it so hard for Sherlock to admit that he was human, just like everyone else, and like everyone else he needed sleep? Why did he push himself so hard?

"So…If you're not tried, then what's the matter?" John asked trying to take a different approach to this situation.

"Bored."

John rolled his eyes again; of course he would say that.

John knew Sherlock was tried, nothing but tired. He also knew that if he pushed him about being tired and needing sleep it would only prompt Sherlock to fight to stay awake even more. So for now, John would try giving in; just a little.

"Well, you can…" John looked around the room. "Play your violin."

Without looking over Sherlock held up his bandaged hand in response.

"Oh, yeah…right sorry." John said awkwardly.

Now he felt bad, how could he forget? He was tired too, he wasn't thinking straight.

Whether Sherlock knew it or not, he just gave John another sign or his exhaustion. He didn't argue with John to take the bandage off, he didn't even attempt to remove it himself. He just placed his hand back to where it lied before. This was definitely sleep-deprived Sherlock.

"Uh, how _is_ your hand, by the way?"

"Fine." He said in a flat tone.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Oh good; you can read a book if you'd like."

"No."

"Watch the telly?"

"Dull."

"Are you going to answer me with only one word answers?"

"Why not?"

"Ah two words, now we're communicating, well done Sherlock." He said sarcastically.

This conversation was really getting them nowhere.

John sighed and ran his hands over his face. Then he took a sip of his tea, which had gone cold by now and it wasn't very good. He would like to have at least one nice, full cup of hot tea before he went to bed.

Bed.

That was where he should be, that was where Sherlock should be, should have been hours, even days ago. Sherlock never slept when there was a case going on. The only time that he had slept during a case was the time he was drugged; and John prayed that that would never happen again.

John looked up again at Sherlock in time to see him attempt to stiffen a yawn. He could see it in his eyes that Sherlock was trying desperately not to let his mouth open for the yawn to escape. In return, Sherlock's face scrunched and contorted into what would have been some pretty funny faces, had John not felt so bad for his tired friend. Sherlock had been awake for four days solving this case, ninety-six hours, maybe more; who knew when the last time he slept was.

John wanted to tell him, no he wanted to _order_ him to bed. But he knew Sherlock would not listen, why should he? John was not in control of him, no one could be in charge of Sherlock. It was just hard sometimes, John thought. Being one of Sherlock's only friends and his doctor, he worried often about him and his health, all of his well-being in general. John didn't mention it to Sherlock, because he was pretty sure that he knew, but he was one of John's only friends too. Sure he had buddies in the war, and Lestarde was a decent man, but Sherlock was really the only true close friend that he ever had.

John wanted Sherlock to be safe, safe from danger and safe from his own bad habits, like not sleeping or eating enough. John would go as far as to say he saw Sherlock as a younger brother, but he couldn't tell him that, Sherlock didn't get feelings of sentiment like that.

This was why John couldn't tell Sherlock what to do, why he couldn't tell him to go to bed and get some rest even though it was so simple. Sherlock would think that it was coming from the doctor side of him, which to some degree it was, but mostly it came from the responsibility that he felt he had for Sherlock; and he just wouldn't understand, not even with his great mind.

John was so deep in his thoughts that he hadn't realized that he had walked into the kitchen with his _and _Sherlock's tea cups, which he must have grabbed out of habit. He mentally shook himself back to reality and looked down at the cups sitting on the counter in front of him. _That's right_; he thought he had wanted a new, fresh cup of tea before he turned in for the night. He dumped his half empty cup of cold, bitter tea down the sink before heading for the kettle. He looked at Sherlock's cup that was completely empty next to his.

"More tea, Sherlock?" he called just before filling his own cup.

When he received no answer, he tried again.

"Sherlock?"

He turned completely around to see that Sherlock's bandaged hand had fallen to his side; fingers that were slightly bent faced the ceiling; his left hand was where it had been, but much more limp and relaxed, his head had turned ever so slightly to face in towards the couch cushion, and his eyes that had been trying so hard to stay open were finally closed.

John sighed with relief and smiled to himself. Sherlock was fast asleep; just that small fact was a huge weight lifted off his shoulders.

He walked over to his favorite chair and picked up the crimson blanket that was flopped over the top of it. John took great care in walking over to Sherlock to make sure that his footsteps did not rouse him, and he took even greater care in draping the light covering over Sherlock's limp body.

Sherlock appeared to look so much younger now that he was asleep, he looked like a kid. In fact he still was, sometimes John forgot that Sherlock was just twenty-eight. Looking at him now, he looked like a teenager, so young, so fragile, and so sensitive; even though he would never admit it. He also appeared to look at peace, relaxed, and safe. Right now nothing could hurt Sherlock, physically or emotionally nothing could touch him. Whatever kind of dreams his brilliant mind conjured up were safe, they would not hurt him, and if they did, John would be there for him.

He would always be there.

Feeling more at ease now that he knew Sherlock was getting the sleep he needed, John's own exhaustion was catching up to him. His back started to ache again, his eyes begged to be shut, and he could practically hear his bed calling his name. He looked back towards the kitchen, suddenly remembering the cup of hot tea that he poured himself; tea did sound good, but bed sounded even better, he decided to abandon the tea until morning, he'd make more in the morning.

John stretched his arms up to the sky in one last attempt to release the knots in his shoulders and back before yawning and heading to the staircase that led to his room.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs he turned around one last time to look at the sleeping form that was Sherlock. The blanket rose and fell with every quiet breath he took, other than that he had not moved an inch.

John smiled to himself; for when it came to exhaustion, not even the great Sherlock Holmes could win that battle, but Heaven knows he tried.

"Sleep well, Sherlock." He whispered to his sleeping friend before flicking off the light and retiring up the stairs.


End file.
